


The Lightspinner's Apprentice

by boltguiding (mayerwien)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/boltguiding
Summary: “Will no one speak for the child?” asked Sister Astrid, her voice strained and shrill, and Belle was quivering and ready to leap off the fountain ledge, to say that she would speak for herself—when a calm, clear voice rang out above the crowd.“I will,” it said, and everyone fell silent.The man who owned the voice stepped forward, and the people immediately shrank away from him, bowing hurriedly. The man was robed in a wine-red cloak with a hood, which he drew back now from his face, revealing a mop of wispy gray-streaked hair, a well-lined brow, and a hooked nose. His right hand was wrapped around the middle of the large, carved wooden staff that marked him as a mage, but that also supported the weight that his twisted leg could not. As he moved, the very air seemed to part for him, thrumming with the magical energy he gave off.“I speak for the child,” said the Master Lightspinner.--Rumbelle, high fantasy AU / Beauty and the Beast, East of the Sun West of the Moon retelling. Unfinished from around 2013 or so, but putting the finished chapters (and maybe some of the later notes) up for posterity's sake.





	1. Spoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle is brought before the village to learn her fate, and the Master Lightspinner decides to change it.

Belle remembered the first time she saw the magic wall. She had been about about two or three then, and her father had taken her for a day trip to the seaside. The sun had been dipping beyond the ocean, setting fire to the edges of the clouds and the tops of the waves. But Belle had seen something else that was bright and shining, and she ran barefoot into the ocean towards it, giggling with her hands outstretched, before Maurice ran after her and scooped her up. 

“No, darling,” he had puffed between breaths, sitting down hard in the shallow water as she struggled to get out of his grip. “You mustn’t go near that.”

 _“Why?”_ she had demanded, thumping Maurice’s arm crossly. His glasses jumped sideways off his nose with the blow, and he contorted his face into various odd expressions until they had wiggled back into place.

“It’s the magic wall, my dove. It keeps the village safe from pirates and sea monsters. The Master Lightspinner does that,” he had said, and pointed up at the cliff where the weathered lighthouse stood. Its battered white walls glowed pink-gold in the light, its lamp burning faintly as the early evening crept in.

Belle had spared the lighthouse only a sideways glance, before turning her attention back to the shimmering wall of golden light, which was so thick it almost appeared solid. It hovered over the sea about ten feet out, and ran all along the coastline in both directions. She had to tilt her head all the way back, and even then she couldn’t see the top of it.

A few gulls were winging their way across the sky, their distant, keening cries dotting the air. As Belle watched, they flew through the wall of light without consequence, and sailed off over her head to their nests. “But Papa, the seagulls are touching it,” she had said.

Her father had shaken his head. “The animals don’t know any better. But the people, well—most people want to be polite and not play with magework, whether they can actually do damage to it or not.”

 _“I’m_ not most people,” Belle had pointed out, and Maurice chortled heartily, “You’re right about that.” So she had relented and kissed him on the cheek, and then all of a sudden, he tumbled her out of his arms and into the water. Shrieking with laughter, she kicked her legs hard like a mermaid and splashed him in the face, and soon father and daughter were both soaking wet and yodeling wildly, as they chased each other around in the sea-foam and the fading sunlight.

But now Belle’s father was dead, killed in an avalanche while patrolling the border of Avonlea, along with five other soldiers from the village. A messenger on horseback had delivered the news a week ago, along with the news that they had not been able to retrieve the bodies to bring them home for a proper burial. Belle had exactly one black dress among her belongings, and she wore it now, as she sat on her doorstep and waited for Sister Astrid to come for her.

Something rustled timidly in her peripheral vision, and Belle lifted her chin dully out of her cupped hands and turned to see Merryweather peering over the gate, her hand on the latch. When Belle blinked in recognition, the older woman toddled through, adjusting the dark veil that covered her round face.

“I just...thought I’d wait with you,” Merryweather said, easing herself down onto the stoop beside Belle. She let her breath out all at once, and flipped her veil up over her head, fanning herself with her hand. “Hot, isn’t it? Can’t wait for the rains to come.”

“Yes.” Belle smiled weakly.

“There was that one morning last year Roslin woke up, took one look at the sky and said it would rain hard in the evening. And sure enough it did, thunder and lightning and all, water pouring right through the thatch, do you remember? And Priam said to me, ‘If our Rosie doesn’t turn out to have the Sense, I’ll eat my shoe.’ Takes after her papa, she does.” Merryweather chuckled, and Belle looked down at her toes.

Then Merryweather slowly fell silent, as if horrified that she had just uttered the word ‘papa,’ and began to stammer. “Oh, my dear, I—I didn’t mean—“

“It’s all right,” began Belle wearily, drawing a wobbly circle in the dirt with her heel. There had been too many apologies this past week.

“Maurice was a good man,” Merryweather murmured, taking Belle’s hand in both of hers. “He died for all of Avonlea, and no one will forget that. A right good man.”

“He was.” Belle thought she’d already cried all the tears she could ever have cried, but now she swallowed, feeling the familiar tightness in her throat once more. “Thank you.”

“My dear, I—I wish we could speak for you. Priam and me, we both do,” said Merryweather sorrowfully, and Belle could see that she meant it. “But it’s just—the girls, they’re all skin and bones as it is, and with the baby, I don’t know that we’d have enough to...“

Belle stopped her neighbor from going on by patting her on the arm. “You’re very kind. But don’t worry, Mother Merryweather. I’ll be fine.” She smiled, as bravely as she could muster. “I’m sure someone nice will speak for me.”

“That’s right,” the older woman said fervently, shaking Belle’s hand. “Times are hard, but there’s lots of good people in the village who’ll do anything for you, people who’ve enough to feed you and keep you in your home. Why, just look at the baker! Rounder cheeks even than those giant currant buns he puts in the front of the window, and his wife is always complaining about how it wouldn’t hurt to have another woman helping out around the shop. A pretty girl like you’s got nothing to worry about.”

Belle nodded and smiled, but did not reply any further. After the king had raised his taxes in order to fund the army fighting ogres in the west, there had been less to go around for everyone.

Turning her mind from those thoughts, Belle instead turned her gaze to the sky. It was such a piercing shade of blue that it hurt to look at, so she stared up into the vast expanse until her eyes watered. A lone bird was circling up there, so white it looked like a wisp of cloud that had broken away. For a moment, Belle imagined what it would be like to follow it, to lift off the ground and float up, up and still up, away into that endless, quiet stretch of watery air.

Then she heard hoofbeats close by, and Merryweather was gripping her arm tightly. A tall, slim figure in a long-sleeved, dark blue dress was dismounting a dun horse by the gate. The figure lifted the veil it wore over its face to reveal a pale complexion, short auburn curls, and round, grave eyes.

“There’s the Sister now,” said Merryweather unnecessarily, and Belle’s stomach turned over. She tried to stand and found she couldn’t, so Merryweather, who still had her hand clamped firmly around her arm, helped haul her to her feet. The village leader stepped back as the gate swung open, and the two other women bowed their heads to greet her.

“Belle du Francais?” Sister Astrid inquired in her feathery voice, and Belle nodded slowly. “I am here to take you to the village square for the gathering.” She gestured to the stirrup of the saddle. Shakily, Belle stepped forward, took hold of the saddlehorn and swung herself up and over the horse’s broad back. As soon as she sat down, the stallion stamped and flicked his ears back, and she flinched slightly.

“I’ll follow on foot,” said Merryweather loyally, looking up at Belle with fierce eyes. “Even if I can’t take you, Belle. I’ll be there so’s I know you’re safe with good people.” Belle nodded again, feeling dizzy, as Sister Astrid mounted in front of her.

“Arms around my waist,” said Sister Astrid so crisply that Belle obeyed before she had time to be embarrassed about clinging to her village leader like a baby possum. “We wouldn’t want you attending the ceremony with any broken bones, now would we?” She squared her shoulders and flicked the reins. “Hyah, Philippe!”

The stallion whinnied lustily and sprang forward in a lively canter, jostling Belle in her seat and making her hit her chin on Sister Astrid’s shoulder, knocking her teeth together. The wind screamed in her ears, and the trees and other cottages sped by in an unfathomable blur.

 

\--

 

One harsh winter, six years ago, Big Rolfson the blacksmith had taken ill and died suddenly—leaving his younger sister, Ilsa, with no husband or any living relatives to care for her. After a week, Sister Astrid had called a gathering, even as the fountain in the village square was frozen solid, and people had to wear scarves around the lower halves of their faces to keep their lips from cracking. The weeping Ilsa had stood beside Sister Astrid on the ledge of the fountain, her arms wrapped around herself, her small frame swaying as her sobs were lost to the wind.

The tailor’s family had spoken for her then. The elderly Tailor Mennan had come forward, taken hold of Ilsa’s tiny hands, kissed her on both tear-stained cheeks, and then helped her step off the ledge, as was custom—thus welcoming her as their daughter, promising to support her and keep her in her home, in exchange for her help at the tailor’s shop.

Orphans, after all, were useful. They pushed all their sorrows out of their heads by working until their fingers bled.

And now Belle was standing in Ilsa’s place, beside Sister Astrid on the rim of the fountain, and the villagers were gathering in the square around her. The cool spray coming off the fountain tickled the back of her neck, providing no small amount of relief from the summer sun.

A sheep ambled away from the rest of its flock and butted its head against Belle’s hand. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she scratched it lovingly under its chin.

It was then she noticed that some people were giving her odd looks—which, Belle reflected, was really no surprise. She knew she looked awful; her hair was hanging in stringy clumps around her face, her dress was wrinkled and smelled sour from several days of use, and her once-white collar was growing even more damp with sweat by the minute.

Before she died, her mother had given her her name. Maurice had told her that it meant ‘beautiful.’ “Beautiful inside and out,” he had reminded her often, “though what’s inside is what’s really important, my dove. If you are hardworking, honest, strong, and kind, good will always find you. Good is everywhere, as long as you believe it.”

Belle pressed her lips together and lifted her head. Rolling a reed hair tie off her wrist, she pulled her hair neatly out of her face and knotted it into a thick horse-tail, then straightened up and took a deep breath. Let them see she wasn’t weak and weepy and useless. Let them see a strong, smart, hardworking young woman, someone worth the risk.

Someone her father had been proud of.

“People of Haverly,” called Sister Astrid, raising her voice, and all the villagers bowed their heads briefly. Belle saw a familiar squat figure elbowing her way to the front of the crowd, and grinned in spite of everything. Merryweather caught her eye and grinned encouragingly back, wiggling her fingers in greeting.

“As you all know, we lost six good men in the border avalanche. Now that the customary week of mourning is over, it falls to me to find care for those who, with our brothers’ deaths, are left without a single living blood relation in the world.” Sister Astrid licked her lips, and Belle curled her hands into fists.

Maybe Geric the candlemaker, who had thick round glasses that always slipped to the end of his nose, whom everyone called Geric the Gentle, would speak for her. He had two younger sisters, and they’d lost _their_ papa when they were just little ones. Surely he knew what it was like, having lost someone. Surely enough people bought candles for him to be able to support just one more person?

“Here stands before you Belle du Francais, seventeen years of age—daughter of Maurice du Francais, a kind and honest citizen who worked as a mechanic and repairman in the King’s Army.”

Or perhaps Widow Tirael, who sold the largest cream-white eggs in town. Surely the old woman needed someone to help her raise all those chickens—surely she couldn’t be managing alone, with her bad back, at her age?

“Now I must ask—who among you will speak for this child, and promise to love and care for her as your own blood, and keep her in her home for as long as she needs it?”

And there it was—the question, the inescapable question to which her fate was tied—flung into the air like a bouquet. Hanging there, waiting for someone to catch it.

Belle searched among all their faces desperately, hoping the goodness she _knew_ was in their hearts would make itself known, praying to see that recognizable light in someone’s eyes. But all around the town square before her, she could see the villagers shifting uncomfortably, muttering to each other, looking at each other, looking away. Looking anywhere but at her.

And she knew then, what her fate would be. What she had known all along.

Instantly, Belle took out the plan she had tucked away in her mind. She could live in their cottage— _her_ cottage, now—by herself. She’d offer to do repairs around town, like her father had—mending broken doors, clocks, horse-carts. She knew enough. And if she didn’t, she could learn.

“People of Haverly, which of you will speak for this child?”

She could start chopping firewood now, while it was still warm out. She could eat only one small meal a day, be able to save enough so that come winter, she wouldn’t be— 

“Will no one speak for the child?” asked Sister Astrid, her voice strained and shrill, and Belle was quivering and ready to leap off the fountain ledge, to say that _she_ would speak for herself—when a calm, clear voice rang out above the crowd.

“I will,” it said, and everyone fell silent.

The man who owned the voice stepped forward, and the people immediately shrank away from him, bowing hurriedly. The man was robed in a wine-red cloak with a hood, which he drew back now from his face, revealing a mop of wispy gray-streaked hair, a well-lined brow, and a hooked nose. His right hand was wrapped around the middle of the large, carved wooden staff that marked him as a mage, but that also supported the weight that his twisted leg could not. As he moved, the very air seemed to part for him, thrumming with the magical energy he gave off.

“I speak for the child,” said the Master Lightspinner.

Belle felt as though an ogre had punched her in the ribs. The scenario of _nobody_ speaking for her had been even more expected than what was happening now. The mage who lived on a cliff overlooking the sea and built the protective wall of spells, whom the people in town rarely ever saw with their own eyes, who could create light from nothing at all; who, it was rumored, never ate, never slept, had beaten the Enchanted University’s own lightspinning teacher in a duel and been expelled for it, had fought a dragon barehanded and lived to tell about it, had journeyed beyond the Final Gates and stolen an unspeakable secret that allowed him to live for a thousand years—was standing right in front of her.

The tale mothers used to frighten their misbehaving children, the mystery no one in their wildest dreams could ever hope to unravel—was offering his support, his protection, to _her._

This was the way adventures always began, in the best kinds of stories, and whatever fears and apprehensions she had about being the charge of the lightspinner evaporated when she thought about what she could _learn_ from him. Belle’s heart thudded in her chest. Perhaps he would ask her to look up things in books for him, or help repair spelled mechanisms. But she knew well that these invitations never came without a price—and despite the prospect of her own adventure, there were some things she wouldn’t give up for it. 

“However, I have one request.” The mage spoke again, in that even voice that suggested a vast measure of unfathomable power was lying dormant beneath the surface. “I cannot keep the girl in her home.”

Sister Astrid gasped and opened her mouth to protest, but the Master Lightspinner lifted his long forefinger to silence her. “Think, dearie. It is too far to be convenient for either of us. If she is to be my charge, and assist me in my work, she must come to live at the lighthouse with me.”

 _All right,_ thought Belle, _all right._ _New plan._

The mage suddenly turned his gaze on her, as if he had only just remembered who he had spoken for, and Belle drew her breath in sharply. In his eyes was a terrible light—strange and cold, and undoubtedly distrustful. But for some reason, seeing it made her even more bold, and she found the words tumbling out of her mouth before she knew what she did. “I thank you for your kindness, Master Lightspinner, but—I have a condition, too.”

He cocked his head at Belle, but said nothing. She pressed her fingernails hard into her palm and plowed on. “You have managed the protection of Avonlea’s coastline thus far alone, so I presume your speaking for me is out of your—your great kindness, and not out of any real need of an assistant.” She swallowed. “I will come of age in a year. So I request that on the day I do, if I so choose, I be allowed to relinquish my duties to you, and return to my home. I will fend for myself, and not ask you for anything more from then on.”

For a long while, the Master Lightspinner did not react, just continued to give her that guarded stare. Then his lips cracked into the smallest of smiles. “Very well. As you have said, these will be the terms of our arrangement. Normally I would ask you for blood, to make it formal.” Belle bit the inside of her cheek, and his smile grew wider. “But I suspect you know better than to break a deal with me.”

Dazed, Belle shook her head, then nodded when she realized her mistake.

Appearing satisfied with this, the man tucked his staff into the crook of his elbow and raised both hands palm up, holding them out to Belle. Still reeling from everything that had transpired in the past few minutes, it took her a moment to remember what it was she was supposed to do.

Belle slipped her own hands into the Master Lightspinner’s, feeling his warm, work-roughened fingers closing around her own. As they did, she could have sworn she felt a tingle of magic winding around her wrists and sweeping up her arms, making her hair stand on end.

Moving closer, he kissed her lightly on both cheeks. He smelled of strange, foreign spices, and of the ocean and the sun—but his lips were dry as sandpaper on her skin, and as he drew back, Belle noticed that the cold light had not left his eyes.

“Come along, dearie,” he murmured, so that only she could hear. “There is much to be done.”

Still supporting her, the Master Lightspinner helped her off the ledge. It could have been her imagination, but Belle felt as though when she did, she floated rather than stepped down to the ground, her skirts billowing around her legs. 

The mage took up his staff again, and without another word, the two made their way back through the deathly quiet crowd and departed the square. As they walked, Belle remembered she had been about to look back and say something to Merryweather—either thank you, or goodbye—but they had rounded the corner before she had had time to figure out which.


	2. The House of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle arrives at her new home, and witnesses the spinning of light.

The steep, rocky ground leading up to the lighthouse proved for difficult climbing, but Belle was determined to keep up with him. If he noticed her struggling, though, he didn’t show it. The Master Lightspinner didn’t even look over his shoulder as he expertly navigated the stones, using his staff for support the way an ordinary shepherd might. 

Belle thought of how everyone had shrunk from him in fear, back in the square, and suddenly got a mental image of him herding the scared villagers around, grumbling “Get along there” and prodding them with his staff when they blocked up the path. Biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud, she adjusted the satchel slung across her chest and attempted to focus on lengthening her strides.

Inside the satchel was everything she owned that she could take with her—her three other dresses, undergarments, a tortoiseshell hairbrush with a cracked handle. A yellowed book that Maurice had bought for her at a long-ago traveling fair. The tarnished silver hand mirror that had belonged to her mother. And her father’s tool belt, rolled up and tucked into its special pocket.

That morning, Belle had walked through the cottage for the last time, running her hands over every last thing so as not to forget any of it. The wooden doorposts, scuffed and warped from having seen so many rough seasons. The fireplace, with all its fifty-five stones—she’d counted. The kitchen table, which had a deep gash in the corner from that time she had tried to slice a tomato and missed. Maurice’s work table, strewn all the way across with bits and pieces of an invention he had left unfinished. Had she forgotten anything?

 _It’s only for a year,_ she told herself, shaking her head fiercely. _It’s not going anywhere, and Mother Merryweather promised to watch it for you until you return._

A wind was blowing in from the sea, running its cool, salty fingers across her face and through her hair. The smell of the ocean so close stirred something in her all of a sudden, something deep and terribly young—a part of her that she thought she had lost for good.

She wasn’t afraid; she was sure of at least that much. Excited and a little nervous and a bit homesick already, but not afraid of _him._ In all her life, Belle had seen the Master Lightspinner only twice—and neither of those incidents had given her any cause for fear.

The first time had been when a whale was beached on the shore. A few of the girls had been swimming and came running back to the village, barely able to get the thrilling news out between breaths. Belle had been one of the ones who ran back with them, anxious to see a whale up close. But when they had arrived, the mage was already there, standing next to the giant gray-blue bulk of the creature, ankle-deep in seawater.

The whale hadn’t been quite as large as Belle had expected; its body was emaciated, almost shriveled, and its jaw was working feebly as though it were trying to call for help. She had hung back with the rest of them, watching breathlessly as the Master Lightspinner threw his staff down into the sand and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the whale’s glistening skin, his mouth moving quickly and silently while his hands drew intricate patterns in the air.

Then the mage had pushed himself to his feet once more and in a great sweeping motion, lifted his arms over his head. All at once, the tide had rushed in, the foam swirling around his knees. He then made a large outwards movement as though he were shoving something with the heels of his palms, and just as quickly as it had come, the tide rolled out, taking the newly-healed whale with it. Before any of them had had time to react, he had bent to retrieve his staff, turned, and limped back up the cliff without meeting any of their eyes.

And the second time had been only for a brief moment. It had been when a little boy in the village had gone to play down by the river and disappeared. The body was never found, so after three days of searching, the townspeople had lit candles and floated them away on the river to the sea. In the crowd, Belle was certain she had seen a familiar austere face hooded by a wine-red cloak, and a hand extending from the folds of it to set another bobbing candle adrift on the water.

It occurred to Belle, recalling all of this, that she hadn’t yet said thank you to the Master Lightspinner for speaking for her. She had meant to, ever since they had left the square together, but there had never seemed to be a good time. Perhaps now? But just as she opened her mouth to try, the mage spoke, cutting through the silence and erasing the unsaid words on her tongue.

“We’re here.”

Belle inhaled sharply in surprise. She’d been so concentrated on clambering over the stones that she hadn’t even noticed they were already standing in the shadow of the lighthouse. Squinting up, she saw the edge of the roof and the railing high above, that surrounded the—deck, she supposed it was called, where the light came from.

A simple wooden door was set in the white wall before them, and it was this door that the Master Lightspinner approached now. She wondered if he would speak a password, or rap against the wood in a certain way to make it open, but he merely reached into a pocket and drew out an ordinary key, which he inserted in the keyhole and turned with a solid click. He nudged the door open with his shoulder and, for the first time since they’d set off, turned to face her.

“Welcome,” he said, and made a small, almost mocking gesture, the way a leader of a traveling performance troupe might present a hunchback or a juggling dwarf. Wrapping her sweaty hands around the strap of her satchel, Belle shuffled past him through the door and into the dark entryway.

The lighthouse was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. Belle supposed you could have fifteen horses standing end to end, and still not reach the opposite wall. A spiral staircase wound through the center, and there were three ring-shaped landings at different levels. Each of these landings could be stepped off sideways onto a floor, which was ringed by a wooden railing.

But the really remarkable thing about it was the lanterns. Unlit lanterns of every shape and size hung from the staircase railing at uneven intervals, and Belle tilted her head all the way back, turning around and around in an attempt to get a better look at them—there must have been hundreds. They swung slightly in the sea breeze that came in through the porthole-windows, and Belle sucked her breath in delightedly.

“You were expecting perhaps human skeletons?” the Master Lightspinner asked dryly, making her jump. “Sigils in pig’s blood, eyeballs in glass jars?”

Belle felt heat creeping into her cheeks. “No, Master Lightspinner.”

He turned a half-amused gaze on her then, and tossed his head slightly to flick his hair away from his face. “If you’re going to be living here, dearie, you have to be able to call me something other than ‘Master Lightspinner.’”

Her stomach plummeted. “Not ‘Father,’” she blurted out.

“I would not have suggested anything of the sort,” said the mage, frowning. “My name is Rumplestiltskin; that should do.”

Belle relaxed. So he had a name, after all. Not an ordinary one—a rather funny one, come to think of it—but a name she could probably spell. “All right. Master Rumplestiltskin,” she pronounced, trying out a wide smile.

Rumplestiltskin did not return it. “I’ll show you to your room,” was all he said, and ascended the staircase in front of her. Belle followed, but quickly realized this was not as easy as it seemed. The stairs creaked alarmingly every time she put her foot down, and seeing the floor in the gaps between the steps made her feel a little wobbly—as though gravity were plucking at her leg muscles, playing them like lute strings. She held onto the railing hand over hand and tried to look at the lanterns instead.

Some were the standard squarish ones with metal frames that they used in the village; others were round, or gourd-shaped, or star-shaped, or shaped like flowers with hundreds of interlocked petals; others were made with chips of rainbow-colored glass, and still others were made out of paper, with designs drawn on their faces in dark ink. Belle touched each one as she passed it in amazement, wondering what far-off places they had come from. These lights had probably traveled much farther than she ever had, or ever would.

“I assure you, dearie, I did not take you in out of mere generosity,” said Rumplestiltskin, breaking the silence. “You will work to earn your keep, and work hard.” Belle nodded eagerly, then felt a bit silly when she realized he couldn’t see her anyway. “Your list of duties runs thus: thoroughly sweep, dust, and clean all the rooms in the lighthouse—save my own workroom, which must under no circumstances be entered or otherwise tampered with, and any of the lighthouse mechanisms and machines, all of which are extremely delicate.”

“But I can—“ Belle protested, and the mage looked over his shoulder and glared at her so sharply that she clamped her mouth shut at once.

“As I was saying,” Rumplestiltskin continued, mild irritation spiking his voice, “you will also do the washing and hang it outside to dry, and assist me in any minor spells and workings as needed—fetching materials and so on.” At that, Belle’s heart sped up—so she _was_ going to see some magic, after all. “Now, the rules. My business is my own, and that especially includes the work I do for the wall. If I ever hear that you have spoken to _anyone_ of the secrets you are beholden to here—and believe me, dearie, I have ways of hearing things—you will find yourself wishing I had saved you the trouble and cut out your tongue the minute you set foot in this house. Do you understand?”

She almost nodded again, but then thought better of it and managed to squeak out a “Yes.”

“Good. That said, you may visit the village in your free time, but only with my leave. Needless to say, you are _not_ permitted to bring guests back here, young males or otherwise.” Belle opened her mouth indignantly, but he merely continued speaking in the same bland tone as they climbed. “You will cook for yourself and clean up afterwards; foodstuffs shall not be a problem, as I will arrange to have them delivered from town every week from now on.”

They had reached the first-floor landing by now, and Rumplestiltskin stepped off, over the gap and onto the main floor. Belle hesitated, which he must have seen, for he shifted his grip on his staff and extended it to her, allowing her to hold onto it for support as she made the small leap herself. Once both her feet were safely on solid ground, she let go, not wanting him to think her weak or easily deterred. She made a mental note to herself to get over this fear of heights and master the staircase before the week was out.

Rumplestiltskin pushed at the handle of the door to his right. It stuck halfway, and he had to wedge his staff through the gap before it finally cracked open. “This is the kitchen,” he told her, and moved to allow her to see the inside.

Belle peered in and nearly leaped backwards, shocked at how filthy and unused it looked— _proof he doesn’t need to eat?_ she wondered, swallowing. Fat layers of cobwebs hung everywhere, unthreatened—in the corners, over the cupboards, in the fireplace, even spanning the space between the table and chair legs. Dead moths and mice droppings littered the floor, and everything was coated in fine gray dust. There was at least a larger rectangular window here, which appeared to open outwards.

Rumplestiltskin began to pull the kitchen door shut, and Belle was only too glad to leave—although, she realized with a shudder, she was going to have to do _something_ about it if she wanted to eat while she was here.

She uncurled her toes inside her shoes and was about to follow Rumplestiltskin to the room on the left, when she saw something she hadn’t noticed earlier. Set right in the center of the door, at about eye level, was a small hook made out of some sort of bone. A quick glance around revealed that all of the doors had them. She rested her finger in the smooth crook of the one in front of her. For hanging one’s cloak on? Somehow she didn’t think so.

“Here is the bathroom,” Rumplestiltskin said, and Belle trotted over hurriedly. He indicated through the open door the gigantic wooden tub filled with water at the far end of the room. A folding screen was in one corner, next to a full length mirror; in the other corner was a cupboard overflowing with vials and bottles, some of which had tipped over and were leaking onto the floor. She breathed in deeply. The air here was definitely cleaner, if warmer and thicker, and smelled of sweet flowers and herbs she couldn’t name all mixed together.

“There is a system in place for obtaining clean water,” said Rumplestiltskin, pointing at a raised panel with two small switches on the wall above the tub. “The lever on the left fills the bath; the one on the right allows it to drain out below the lighthouse.” Belle stared at the panel, fascinated, and wondered what other mechanical marvels she would find in the rooms here. Whoever had built this lighthouse had clearly been a genius.

 _Papa would have loved this,_ she thought suddenly, and all at once it was as though something had sucked the color out of the room. She shook her head and walked on.

On the second floor, he showed her the library, and she cheered up a little. Shelves as high as the ceiling were crammed into the entire half-moon space, and every shelf was _completely_ full of books. It was damper than Belle knew a library should be—but then, she reflected, it couldn’t be helped given their current location—and didn’t seem very well lit either, but she knew right then this would be where she’d spend all of her free time.

“I’ve never seen so many books in my entire life,” she gasped, gripping the doorframe in excitement.

“I’ll wager that means you’ve never dusted so many books in your entire life, either,” replied Rumplestiltskin in that soft, sardonic tone of voice. “Dear me. I do hope this does not pose a problem for you.” Belle decided to ignore him.

There was a lot more light on the third floor. As she stepped off the staircase Belle saw that the rest of the steps wound up through a smaller hole in the ceiling, and it was this hole that the light was streaming through. She tried to squint through and see what was above, but all she could catch a glimpse of was something that looked like a large machine. 

“Those are my chambers,” Rumplestiltskin said, pointing at the door across. “The room next to it is my workroom. And this...will be where you will stay. I hope it is sufficient,” he added, somewhat awkwardly, standing back from the door directly in front of them to allow her to enter first. Belle reached for the handle, hoping she wouldn’t find more horrors such as what she had seen in the kitchen.

Thankfully, the small room was free of any traces of rodents, though cobwebs still hung in the corners here and there. A bed and a side table were to her right on the far side, and a round window was set in the wall above it. There was a carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed. A dresser and a grime-spotted mirror stood against the wall to her left, with an ivory pitcher for water, a cracked washbasin, and a candle holder.

Belle crossed to the bed and fingered the threadworn blanket. She guessed it had once been pink, but now it was gray with dust and age.

“There should be spare candles in the side table drawer.” Rumplestiltskin shifted behind her. She had almost forgotten he was there.

Belle turned to face him. “It’s perfect,” she said.

Something crossed his face then, and he cleared his throat. “I have some things to attend to, so I’ll leave you to settle in.” Turning, he shut the door firmly behind him.

In the new silence, Belle pulled the blanket off the bed and flapped it out in front of her to shake off the dust—which she soon realized was a mistake, as the clouds it produced had her coughing vigorously. Then she took her handkerchief out of her pocket and began wiping down as much as she could—the mirror, the surfaces of the tables, the headboard. By the time she was done, the handkerchief was black. Wincing, she folded it and gingerly placed it on her dresser, wiping her grubby fingers on her skirt. The cobwebs she couldn’t do much about for now; she’d tackle them, along with that foul kitchen, tomorrow.

Now she tucked her legs beneath her and sat in front of the wooden chest. She saw that it was carved—not so intricately that she thought it might be terribly expensive, but with a fair amount of craftsmanship. On the top was a sailing ship, and waves decorated the edges of the lid and continued all down the sides. Grinning, she tapped the grooves that made up the face of a mermaid hidden near the bottom.

Belle lifted the lid, and it opened with a deep groan. One at a time, she took her things out of the satchel and placed them deliberately inside. All laid out, they didn’t even completely fill the entire floor of the chest—but she felt a fierce satisfaction seeing them there, felt as though she had really made this room her own.

She smiled brightly. “There,” she said aloud, even though she had never really been in the habit of talking to herself. “That’s everything.” Then, because she suddenly felt worn out, she crawled right onto her bed and sank into sleep.

By the time she woke again, the wind coming off the sea was rattling her window, and the sky outside was dark—but the room around her was not. Belle knuckled her eyes fiercely and sat up in bed. The candle on her dresser was lit, its flame dancing mildly and throwing shadows to the walls. She swung her legs off the side of the bed to put her shoes back on, and blinked. On her side table was a plate of food and a mug.

Had Rumplestiltskin come in while she was asleep and done all this for her? She couldn’t imagine him tiptoeing around, leaving things for her as though he were one of the little Midwinter Spirits. The idea made her crack a smile again. First sheep herder, now benevolent gnome—what other strange masks did her mysterious caretaker wear?

The gurgling in Belle’s stomach meant she was too hungry to care exactly where the food had come from, and she picked up the plate only after inspecting it closely enough to ensure it was free from dead moths. Dinner turned out to be a generous serving of meat stew, thick with carrots and potatoes, and a hunk of dusty dark bread. Belle sat down on the wooden chest and ate steadily until she had wiped the plate clean, realizing she hadn’t touched food at all since the night before. The mug, she discovered, was full of an unfamiliar, spicy tea that burned in her throat, though not unpleasantly.

Leaving the dishes on her dresser, Belle padded to the door and cracked it open, peering out into the passage. What she saw then made her gasp out loud and run out onto the main floor.

All the lanterns were lit. They did not flicker, as they would if they held candles inside them; rather, they all shone a steady, soft gold, that Belle assumed could only come from magic—like honeybee hearts, like touchable stars. No shadows moved against them but her own, and she walked around the floor now, marveling at the points of light spiraling downward into the darkness. 

A little howling wind swept down from the ceiling and around the lighthouse then. Belle squinted up at the hole which led to the deck, and then at the staircase. It didn’t seem any more rickety than the first three flights of steps had, and in all this light there was little chance she’d lose her footing.

Belle gripped the railing securely and began to make the upward climb. As soon as she poked her head out of the hole, what nervousness she’d felt evaporated and was replaced by wonder. Laid out in front of her was the ocean, glimmering silver in the moonlight and gold in the light of the magic wall. Behind her lay Haverly, the main road, and the forests and other villages beyond. Overhead, the stars glittered distantly.

The cool, salty air was like a draught of courage, and Belle pulled herself up onto the floor, which creaked softly. She was higher up than she had ever been in her life, and she felt like a wild hawk, like a goddess, like she might sprout wings and fly away.

It was then that she noticed that the stairs were not in the exact center of the deck, but rather a little ways off to the side. What _was_ in the center was the machine she had observed earlier. It was composed of a complicated system of pulleys, wooden levers, mirrors, glass lenses, and other more intricate parts she couldn’t name. (One section looked horribly similar to the frame of a guillotine; she hoped fervently she was mistaken.) At the heart of this mechanical tangle was a small golden orb, the same color as the magic wall, that glowed steadily as the lanterns below did. Belle ached to learn how it all worked, but she dared not do so much as lay a finger on the corner of the outermost beam. 

Rumplestiltskin was standing by the outer railing and looking out at the night, with his back to her and his staff in hand. Something she couldn’t make out was at his foot, glowing a dull purple. Without turning around, he spoke clearly. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.” Emboldened now that he wasn’t looking directly at her, she finally managed to get out the words that she had been waiting to say all afternoon. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, still not moving to face her. “It was hardly any trouble. I picked it up from the tavern while you were collecting your things. Besides, you’re still finding your bearings. Today, you are a guest.”

“I don’t mean just for dinner, I mean—for everything. For speaking for me. Even if you say it wasn’t out of mere generosity, it’s more than anyone could afford to do right now.”

Rumplestiltskin did not respond, just stood there unmoving for a while. Then suddenly he turned, his cloak billowing in the wind, and took a few long, slow strides so that they were standing face to face. Belle swallowed, startled by the sudden proximity, by the gray-brown eyes that were no longer cold, but now intensely curious and probing, as though he were looking not just _at_ her but deep inside her. She wondered if mages could read people’s thoughts, and felt the heat rising in her face—but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Finally, he tilted his head. “You’re not afraid of me.” By his tone, it wasn’t a challenge or a threat, merely an observation—a slightly surprised one, almost a question. 

Belle paused, wondering how best to word it. “No,” she agreed finally. “The way I see it, anyone who helps protect the kingdom so should be loved, not feared.”

The mage laughed then, soft and harsh. “Dearie, I have lived a long time, and over the course of the years people have felt many things for me. Love has scarcely ever been one of them.” He broke eye contact with her and moved past her to the outer railing, and Belle deflated slightly in relief. Leaning on his staff, he folded his legs gingerly beneath him and sat on the floor.

“Is it true that you don’t need to eat or sleep?” Belle said all at once, and then bit the inside of her cheek, embarrassed.

His mouth twisted oddly, and he reached into the folds of his cloak, presumably searching some inner pocket. “All university mages are trained to meditate in such a way that allows them to go for as long as a year without food or rest. I’m told, however, that the unschooled mages of the Outlands, brought up in the traditions of their tribes, can go for much longer.” 

“You went to the Enchanted University?”

“The—ah. The university in the royal city, yes. Formally it is known as the Queen’s College of Magics and Sciences.” He pulled out a little wax paper packet of matches. 

“I don’t think I know _anyone_ from the village who’s been to university,” Belle said eagerly, hoping to strike up a conversation. She started to crouch, uncertain of her welcome, and when Rumplestiltskin did not react, sat down completely on the floor—not too close to the outer railing though, which she was still wary of. “Or even to the city, for that matter.”

The Master Lightspinner nodded. “But as I’m sure you’ve guessed, dearie, I am not a native of Haverly. Or even the kingdom of Avonlea, for that matter.”

“Where—where _are_ you from, then?”

“Dunleana, in Glasbaugh,” he replied, striking a match and immediately cupping his hand around the small blue-orange flame. “The marshlands.”

This one snippet of information left Belle burning with questions—she had never met anyone from another kingdom before, and she wanted desperately to know what it was like out there. But before she could ask any more, he steered the conversation back to her original question.

“Lightspinners need to be able to go without sleep, because the light needs constant tending. The mechanisms need to be oiled, the lamp needs to be polished, the lenses need to be calibrated. You should know magic isn’t all pulling things out of the air. Much of it works the way ordinary things do. Machines.”

“I daresay I know a thing or two about machines,” Belle replied, daring a smile.

The sharp look she had seen earlier on the staircase returned. “Be that as it may, you are still not allowed to handle anything without my permission.” Belle considered the wording of this, and thought privately that the addition of ‘without my permission’ meant that he _was_ planning on giving her permission eventually—but decided not to try her luck by pointing that out.

Rumplestiltskin snapped his fingers. A few purple sparks leaped off them. One struck the match flame, making it flare up momentarily, while the rest fizzled out into the darkness.

“The first thing you need to know about lightspinning, dearie,” he said, “is that _all_ light has magic, in and of itself. Anything that fights the darkness does.” He lifted the match and passed his right hand over the flame. The match went out, but his hand came away cocooned thickly in orange light. Belle’s eyes widened. “I trust that now you live in this house, you will not take light for granted.”

“No, Master L—no, Master Rumplestiltskin,” Belle stammered, caught off guard.

“The second is that light, like all other forms of energy, cannot be created. Not truly. It can only be moved around, stored, transformed.” He gave her a furtive sideways look, as if this were a test. “You will have noticed the hooks on the outside of all the doors.” Belle simply nodded, still staring at the mage’s glowing right hand. With his other hand, Rumplestiltskin opened a hatch in the floor that Belle hadn’t noticed before and rummaged around in it, his brow furrowing.

“Once, lighthouses were maintained by teams of four or five mages. Given the vast size of the buildings and how often they had to go to and fro, they needed a way to locate each other.” Rumplestiltskin winced. From the sounds that were coming out of the hatch, Belle guessed he was knocking things over, several of them breakable.

“Each of them had a lantern unique to them, with a differently colored—ow—with a differently colored light. If they were in a room, they hung their lantern on the door so the others would know—damn—where they were. Oh, of all the gods-curst—” Rumplestiltskin switched to a different language and began spitting the words out like an angry cat; though Belle didn’t recognize any of them, she could guess the meaning behind them.

Still cursing, Rumplestiltskin stuck his other arm and his whole head into the compartment. There was a small orange explosion, and finally he emerged with his long fingers wrapped around a china teacup, white and painted with gaudy blue flowers. It was so anticlimactic that Belle had to put her fist to her mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter, and it didn’t help that Rumplestiltskin was glaring at the cup as though it had personally wronged him. 

“Useless. These hatches are supposed to store emergency supplies, not—not— _tea implements,”_ he said scathingly. “No doubt my predecessors were frittering their watches away, stuffing themselves with scones instead of keeping an eye on the coastline. Well, I suppose you’ll have to suffice,” he snarled finally at the cup, and flicked the fingers on his right hand. The flame that had been surrounding it slowly began to change. Strands of blue light were appearing, and growing more and more numerous, weaving their way into the orange and taking it over until the light he was holding was completely bright aqua, the color of the sky on a clear summer day. 

Rumplestiltskin then curled his fingers into a spout shape and made a pouring motion. The magical light dripped slowly away from his hand and into the teacup, until the white china was glowing blue from within.

“The glow is permanent.” To demonstrate, Rumplestiltskin tipped the teacup upside down—the light did not pour out, as Belle had thought it might, so liquid had it looked in his hands. He held the cup out to her, dangling it gingerly from its handle as though it were a dead rat. “Until I can acquire a _proper_ lantern, this will be yours.”

Belle, on the other hand, received it reverently, marveling at its gentle warmth and how the light brimmed and subtly shifted inside. Holding a piece of the sky itself would have been no better. “I don’t mind using this at all,” she murmured. “It’s beautiful.” 

His mouth became a thin line, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Very well.” he said finally. “This is how we will find each other from now on. Hang your lantern on the door of whichever room you are currently occupying. When I call your name, it will send out a beam to let me know where you are. The same goes for if you need to speak with me. Here is mine.” Rumplestiltskin lifted the purple glowing object she had seen earlier on the floor beside him.

It was a crudely made lantern, fashioned without so much as a single sheet of glass. It didn’t look at all like a tool a mage would use, or even anything she had ever seen in the village. It was merely a hexagonal cylinder of wood, each face studded with slot-shaped holes. A rope handle was knotted through the topmost two. From it emanated a deep purple light, the same color as the sparks she had seen earlier.

“We will test them now.” He got to his feet, motioning to her that she should stand on the other side of the deck. Belle scrambled to obey, clutching the teacup to her chest.

Rumplestiltskin held up his wooden lantern and tapped the top of it. “Ladies first,” he said, with a strange little flourish of his hand.

Belle cleared her throat. “Master Rumplestiltskin.” she enunciated. The purple light from the mage’s lantern exploded outward, then focused into a single, straight beam that shot across the deck and halted in midair about a hand’s breadth away from the center of her chest.

As she watched, the beam flickered a little, then faded out slowly. The mage nodded satisfactorily, then lifted his gaze from his lantern to her face. Their eyes met for the second time that night, and something very like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Belle,” he said, and her name on his tongue for the first time was crisp as the edge of an autumn leaf, soft as a musical note from a distant campfire. And for one small, precious moment, one that would comfort her for many nights to come, her world was flooded with summer sky.


End file.
